


Accidentally On Purpose

by marchingjaybird



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidental Marriage, F/M, Friends to Lovers, stupid fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 04:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6038320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marian wakes up with a wretched hangover and a wedding ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accidentally On Purpose

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Tygermama](http://tygermama.tumblr.com/) for my [Valentine's Day fic requests](http://thedas-mom.tumblr.com/post/139320510086/its-valentines-day-and-i-have-the-day-off-work).

Marian woke up with a hell of a hangover.

She’d had a lot to drink for last night. Celebration. Relief. Guilt. A preemptive strike against the nightmares that would undoubtedly have haunted her had she not thoroughly pickled herself. Coming out of the Fade, knowing that Stroud was even then standing his ground against a demon more massive than any she had ever seen, she had commenced to pouring any alcohol she could lay hands on down her throat.

She thought about him as she sat up, her mouth full of sleep’s cottony revenge, the heel of her hand pressed against her forehead. Was he still in there, sword drawn, battered and bloody but standing firm, or had he laid down his arms when he’d seen them reach safety? If it was her, she’d still be fighting. She couldn’t imagine any less of Stroud. He was a good man and, if her very hazy recollection was correct, she had lofted her glass in many toasts to him over the course of the night.

Groaning, Marian swung a leg over the side of the bed, hoping she wouldn’t vomit until she made it to the washroom. There was nothing worse than puking in a chamber pot but it just might come to that Her stomach roiled as she moved and so she subsided, settling back against the headboard and freezing as her hip bumped against someone else.

_Maker_ , she thought, turning her head slowly. _What did I do?_ Her partner was hidden beneath a mound of blankets and seemed to still be fast asleep. Good. Her eyes darted, taking in her surroundings. They were in her room, or at least the room which the Inquisition’s diplomat had assigned her. There were very few personal touches, but her mabari snored in his corner bed and a stack of letters she had yet to answer were piled haphazardly on a small writing desk.

So her… companion… was the interloper here. Good and bad; she could easily kick him or her out without much explanation, but there was also nothing with which to identify them before they woke up. There wasn’t even the benefit of clothes scattered across the floor; as near as she could tell, they had stumbled drunkenly into the room and immediately collapsed on the bed. She, at least, was still wearing the clothes which she had celebrated in the previous night.

Muttering to herself, Marian slipped out of the bed. The urge to throw up had passed, superseded by the desire to know more about her guest. For the time being, she shut herself in the washroom and examined her reflection critically. She was still fully clothed which meant they hadn’t fucked, but her shirt was unfastened scandalously low and there were love bites all down her neck, which meant they had tried. Her hair was a mess, her eyes bleary and bloodshot, and it looked like either her guest was a woman or she had kissed a woman at some point, because there was a smear of bright lip stain from the corner of her mouth to her chin.

Grimacing, she bent to the basin and splashed cool water over her face, which was when she simultaneously discovered the golden ring winking up at her from its perch on her left hand and a quick snatch of memory which she would rather have left buried.

“Oh no,” she muttered, staring at the ring. The memory of her own delighted drunken laughter, the clapping of her hands after the ring had been settled on her finger, her damned treacherous voice vainly attempting solemnity as she promised to love and honor her new husband - it all flooded into her mind with the force of a lightning bolt. She swayed for a moment, her face a rictus of bemused horror, then pitched over and threw up after all.

***

A good half hour later, Marian dragged herself out of the washroom. Her hair was still a mess and she had tossed her shirt on the floor in a fit of overwrought self-pity, but she felt marginally more clear headed than she had and her stomach no longer threatened rebellion at every step. She was just tired now, tired and annoyed, and she was determined to discover to whom she had pledged her troth.

First, though, she was going to get another damned shirt. Whoever it was in her bed, he’d not managed to get her stripped yet and she wasn’t about to give him the chance. They were going to go to the Chantry as soon as she roused him and get the marriage annulled and then go their separate ways and never speak of it again. 

She fished through a trunk of clothes that Varric had sent up for her, scattering them across the ground and closing her eyes briefly. What was Varric going to say to all this? Maker, he’d probably figure out some way to work it into his next book and then she’d have to kill him. 

Finally, she settled on a plain white shirt. It had no collar to speak of but she’d also found a scarf, which she wound around her neck and tucked down into the shirt to hide the lovebites. It wouldn’t do to ask a Chantry sister to annul her marriage if it was so obvious that she’d enjoyed at least a little bit of it.

“You!” she called, kicking the foot of the bed. Her soon-to-be-ex-husband groaned and stirred. “Wake up, we haven’t got all day! I’ll give you ten minutes to wash up.”

“That’s hardly fair,” grumbled a very familiar voice. So familiar, so painfully horrifyingly familiar that Marian froze in the middle of the room, her eyes locked on the bed as Varric sat up, rubbing his hands across his face and blinking grit from his eyes. A gold ring gleamed on his finger.

“Oh no,” she said, for the second time that morning.

“What?” Varric stopped, slowly lowering his hands. “What are you even doing in here, Hawke?”

“This is my room,” she pointed out. Varric’s eyes traversed the room, a growing look of horror on his face.

“Did we--?”

“No.”

“Thank the Maker,” he breathed, sagging back against the headboard in relief. “That’d be… awkward at best.”

“Don’t get too comfy,” Marian warned, a faint smile quirking her lips. She raised her hand, pointed to the ring, and reveled in the look of dawning comprehension and despair in Varric’s eyes. He looked down at his own hand, then back up at her, then down again.

“No,” he said.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Oh no,” he groaned, covering his face with his hands.

“Get up,” she laughed, kicking the bed again. “We have to go get divorced.”

Varric dragged himself out of bed, muttering curses under his breath, and Marian snorted. “It’s not so bad,” she teased. It was honestly a bit of a relief that she’d drunkenly married Varric. At least he understood. At least she _trusted_ him. “You make it sound like I’m not the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Varric paused in the doorway to the washroom and held her gaze, saying very distinctly, “Andraste’s big, fat ass,” before slamming the door. 

Laughing, Marian settled on the bed to wait.

***

They emerged from the room into the glare of early afternoon sunlight. Simultaneous noises of disgust and pain erupted from both their throats. “You got any hats in there?” Varric asked. Marian, plastered against the side of the castle - as though by leaning against it hard enough, she could convince the stones to absorb her - only groaned.

“Come on, Hawke,” he said, gently taking her wrist and leading her like a child across the grassy courtyard. “Let’s get some breakfast before we go talk to Mother Giselle.” Marian mumbled something that may have been agreement, even she couldn’t tell. She wasn’t really hungry - her stomach still felt pinched and sour from throwing up - but she knew from experience that once someone set down a plate of good, greasy tavern food in front of her, she would change her mind.

Varric pushed the door open and led her inside and for a moment, everything was normal. Then someone at the back of the room caught sight of them and a cheer erupted and soon everyone in the bloody tavern was laughing and clapping them on their backs and shouting congratulations. They were shuttled across the room by well-meaning hands, deposited at a table. Dazed, they stared at each other across an expanse of wood.

“Varric,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied, eyes closed, index finger stroking the bridge of his nose.

“Varric, did we get married in the tavern?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said again. He pointed without looking and Marian turned her head slowly to regard the garlands of flowers wound about the stair railings. She vaguely recalled coming down those stairs, wearing a crown of flowers and a mostly clean bar towel as a veil.

“I had a bouquet,” she murmured. She couldn’t remember what flowers were in it, but she recalled the smell of it, sweet and heady.

“You threw it,” Varric said. “Iron Bull caught it.”

Marian fixed him with a suspicious frown. “You remember an awful lot about this,” she accused. Varric rolled his eyes.

“I’m a dwarf,” he said. “I hold my alcohol better than you.”

“You’re full of shit,” Marian laughed, but her eyes crept slowly back to the garlands of flowers. It was hazy, like a dream, but she could almost feel soft petals under her fingers, the smell of crushed blossoms as she stumbled against the railing. She had been _happy_. Deeply, profoundly drunk, but happy nonetheless, and when Varric had lifted her off the bottom step and swung her in a circle, his broad hands steady on her waist… 

“What are you smiling at, Hawke?” he asked, reaching across the table to nudge her elbow.

“Did you pick me up?” she said, focusing on him again. Varric looked startled, then embarrassed. She laughed, twirling her finger in the air. “Did you pick me up and spin me around?”

“Yes, I did,” he admitted. “I was hoping you wouldn’t remember that.”

“Well, I did.” A serving girl set plates in front of them and Marian dove in like a starving dog, her appetite restored just as she’d known it would be. She looked up halfway through stuffing a sausage into her mouth to see Varric staring at her, a fond little smile on his face. He looked away, laughing the way he did when she’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t, and she paused, confused.

“What?” she asked, swallowing.

“Nothing,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.” He tucked a forkful of food in his mouth and chewed placidly. Marian rolled her eyes and went back to eating. 

They finished the meal in silence, though, to Marian’s surprise, it was companionable as ever. She had expected a certain awkwardness, a _distance_ between them, but there was none of that. Just the same old Varric and the same old Marian, in spite of the fact that she was now certain that, at some point during the night, she had sat in Varric’s lap and kissed him eagerly to the accompaniment of raucous cheering courtesy of their “wedding” party.

Mercifully, people seemed content to give them their space, though nearly everyone that passed the table took a moment to clap either her or Varric on the shoulder. “Bout time,” one man murmured, grinning as he went. Marian stared at Varric, eyes wide.

“What does that mean?” she asked, incredulous and amused. The barmaid came to fetch their empty plates and Varric stood, gesturing for Marian to follow. She folded her arms and arched dark brows. “What. Does that. Mean. _Varric_.”

“Nothing!” he exclaimed, grabbing her elbow and steering her along. Sometimes she forgot how damned strong he was. Sometimes he did too; by the time they emerged into the slightly less offensive sunlight, her arm was aching from his grip. Scowling, she swatted his hand away.

“It means something,” she protested. “I haven’t been here that long, certainly not long enough for people to go around thinking we ought to be married!”

“He probably read my book,” Varric soothed. Marian snorted.

“Oh, did you put bits in about your undying love for me, then?” she countered. Varric cradled his forehead in his hand and groaned.

“Why does it matter?” he pleaded. “He was just some nobody saying something in the tavern. Can’t we just let it go?”

Marian stared at him for a long moment, still suspicious but well aware that she wasn’t going to pry anything out of him. He looked up at her, guilty but stubborn, and she finally gave in, gesturing impatiently. 

“Fine, you win,” she said. “Let’s just go get this taken care of.”

“Right,” he answered. “Let’s go.”

***

Mother Giselle listened to them talk, her elegant hands folded in her lap, an expression of perfect serenity on her face. They had stumbled over each other at first, both trying to explain what had happened and neither really succeeding beyond confusing the issue even further. Finally, Marian shut up and let Varric do the talking. He _was_ the storyteller, after all, and much more convincing than she was.

“--so we’d like to get the marriage annulled,” he concluded. Marian nodded emphatically, just in case Mother Giselle wasn’t aware that they were in perfect agreement. Mother Giselle stared at the two of them, first Varric, then Marian, then smiled gently and stood. They rose with her, Marian springing automatically to her feet. She’d never been particularly devout, but there was something about Giselle that demanded respect.

“I’m afraid I cannot do that,” she said. It was such the opposite of what she’d been expecting that Marian was halfway through thanking her before she’d processed the rejection.

“Wonderful, let’s get this - wait, what? Why not?” 

Varric shushed her - which annoyed her deeply - and hurried after Mother Giselle, who had turned to walk away, as though there was nothing left to say. He caught up to her and fell into step, his voice as smooth and sincere as Marian had ever heard.

“Mother, I don’t think you understand,” he said, spreading his hands. “This was all a big mistake!”

“A mistake from which I hope you have learned a valuable lesson,” Mother Giselle answered. Marian followed at a distance, feeling strangely like a child who isn’t quite sure what to do with her hands but knows she ought not touch anything.

“Absolutely. Lesson learned, and now if we could just untangle this little matter of the actual marriage, we can all go about our day.” 

Giselle stopped and looked down at Varric, impassive and impressive. Even he looked a little cowed, a fact which Marian noted with satisfaction. “Marriage is a very important step in a person’s life,” she said.

“Absolutely,” Varric agreed.

“It is not something to be taken lightly,” she continued, and Marian’s heart sank. This was _not_ going to work. “And yet.”

“Mother, you have to understand,” Varric purred. “We had just escaped the Fade, we were excited to be alive. So we did something impulsive and silly that we shouldn’t have done.”

“And now you want me to undo it.” Mother Giselle smiled faintly. “I understand very well, Varric Tethras.”

“So you’ll annul the marriage?” he asked, hopeful. Mother Giselle shook her head.

“But we’re not even in love!” Marian protested, unable to hold her tongue anymore. Varric shot her a frown, which she ignored. “Surely that’s a good reason!”

“Many marriages are entered into without love being part of the relationship.” Giselle folded her arms inside her sleeves and stared impassively at Marian. “It is a beautiful thing when love blossoms in spite of that.”

“Mother Giselle…” But Varric was out of arguments and anger was starting to bubble up in Marian’s throat, bringing with it a host of unpleasant things that she would sooner not say in the presence of a Revered Mother.

“Come on, Varric,” Marian muttered, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him away. “It’s not going to happen.” He resisted, staring up at Mother Giselle, then threw his hands up and stalked after Marian.

***

They sat on the steps together, hips touching, chins in their hands.

“It’s not so bad,” Marian offered. “Neither of us were planning to get married anyhow. And it isn’t as if we have lovers that will be jealous.”

“I suppose,” Varric answered. “It still makes me angry, though.”

“Whose idea was it, anyway?” she asked. “You seem to have a better memory for it than I do.”

“I believe I proposed to you, and you suggested getting married immediately,” he said mournfully.

“So we’re both to blame. Hm.”

She studied the ring on her finger, twisted it back and forth so that it caught the sunlight. It wouldn’t be so bad to be married to Varric, would it? He was her best friend, her only confidante. He had stood with her through thick and thin, always supporting her, always smoothing the way with a joke or a quick bribe. She had cried on his shoulder when her mother died, bitter, wracking sobs with her arms wrapped around him to hold her steady, and he had smoothed his hands up and down her back and told her it was alright, that he was there as long as she needed him. 

He had spun her in a circle last night, had held her in his lap, had placed the flowers in her hair with his own two hands, laughing and flushed and… _happy_. Maker, they had both been so happy, and it hadn’t just been the alcohol, had it? She had looked down the staircase at him and it hadn’t seemed like a joke, it had seemed like something good and right and beautiful, like she had finally figured out the last piece of the puzzle.

“Varric,” she said, still half lost in thoughts. 

“Hmm?”

“Did you tell everyone at the tavern that you were in love with me?”

“Maker, no!” He laughed but it rang false, and Marian turned, narrowing her eyes at him. Slowly, his smile faded and he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I might have.”

“You might have,” Marian echoed. Varric smiled sheepishly.

“Before you got here, I may have gotten a little drunk and started telling stories about Kirkwall,” he admitted. “And I may have gotten tricked into saying things I would rather have kept to myself.”

“Like that you love me,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“I decline to answer that question, Hawke,” he said loftily, “on the grounds that I’ve already been humiliated enough today.”

Impulsively, she leaned over, cupping his face in her hands and tilting it up. At first, when she kissed him, he was stiff with shock, his lips hard and unyielding. But she didn’t relent and after a moment he relaxed into it, parting his lips and returning her uncertainty with eager passion. His arms circled her waist, dragged her close and, laughing, she swung herself into his lap. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until the rest of the world disappeared and her senses were occupied entirely with how Varric felt and smelled and tasted.

Which, to be fair, was a bit like the spicy sausage they’d had for breakfast with just a hint of beer left over from the night before, but the brilliant thing was that she didn’t mind. He wasn’t a romantic fantasy or an unattainable ideal, he was good, solid Varric. Varric, whom she knew and loved and had never even considered for fear of losing the best, truest friend she’d ever had.

And now he was hers, and she pulled away, laughing. Their foreheads touched. Marian kissed his nose.

“So,” he said softly, “this might not be so bad after all.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she teased, twitching back her scarf. His eyes widened at the sight of the bruises that dotted her throat.

“Did I do that?” he breathed. “Maker, I’m sorry!”

“You did do that,” she answered, “and don’t be sorry. I intend to find out whether you’re any good at the follow up before I count this marriage a success.”

She stood and held out her hand and, laughing, led him back upstairs to the comfortable darkness of her room.


End file.
